A Stubborn, Persistent Illusion ... Part 14 …Burying the Past and Digging it up

In burning agony my flesh lives,
And already the spirit gently sleeps,
A garden I recall, tender with autumn leaves
And cries of cranes, and the black fields around.
How sweet it would be with you underground!
—Anna Akhmatova

I went to the field where Elaine’s plane went down.

It was autumn and peaceful with red woods all around and I thought how beautiful except for the burnt -out crater and ashen debris scattered beyond.

I tried to stifle the thought as I sat in the pub talking with Clare. I was talking about my dead wife with whom I had met and conversed only a few hours before.

And as surreal as that was, here I was, trying to cope with the result.

It just wouldn’t work out, I said in my soul, but I was really afraid I was losing control of myself.

There was nothing left—so, I tried to bury the guilt—just as there was nothing else in that flaming wreckage to bury in the ground.

I was raised Catholic—I know guilt—it’s chronic like a pneumonia you bear while walking about.

And that’s what I did for the longest while—got up each day walking around—going through the motions while drowning in myself.

It was hate turned inward and shame as well—Bless me Father for I have sinned—I did it to myself and betrayed Elaine long before she was gone.

And there’s no penance for that—Dante was wrong—no Thomistic reprieve or indulgence for sin—simply years of drink trying to kill myself.

So, here I am, staring into Clare’s beautiful face, when she’s the one who tempted me all those years.

I never physically strayed but was mentally disloyal, and that’s what torments me most right now.

But I can’t say this to her or make her share in my sin.

It’s ironic because my faithlessness was all contained within this poor, distracted globe of my brain—fantasies florid and tasteless as a Wyatt poem:

They flee from me that sometime did me seek
With naked foot, stalking in my chamber...

But it was I who was creeping and stalking—and I who now range, busily seeking absolution with continual change.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Clare smiles and compassionately pats my hand. “You seem so preoccupied and lost inside—do you want to talk about it?”

That would be the last thing on my mind, I muse, and am more concerned that her touch has not ignited even a spark of passion in me.

“No, I’m good…for now,” I reply somberly, “I just need time to work though all the implications of this.”

She nods sympathetically. “You must be overwhelmed. You know I’m here anytime of day or night that you need to talk.”

I nod mutely, afraid that if I speak, I’ll sob and embarrass myself.

Other people in my place might say they don’t deserve this—I do—I don’t mean I deserve Clare’s concern, but I do need to bear the burden of my guilt that becomes a weight oppressing my soul.

I look at the clock and it’s past nine and I realize Clare has to work tomorrow and I’ve probably exhausted her, not to mention putting severe demands on her time.

“I think we should call it a night—I’m wrung out and I’m sure you are too. I’ll call you tomorrow if that okay with you.”

“Of course, Paul—please phone. I’m concerned and you know I’m there for you.”

I walk her out to her car and she turns to say goodbye and instead, falls into my arms as if coming home.

I bury my face in her hair, inhaling the fresh fragrance of her, and don’t want to let go, but I force myself.

“You know I appreciate you, Clare,” I manage to croak in a husky voice and she hesitates as if intending to kiss me, but changes her mind and gets into her car.

I watch her taillights fade into the night, still staring at her after image beneath the orange glare of the sodium lights.

© 2019, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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